


Angels with Dirty Faces

by Riesx



Series: Suicide Blonde [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riesx/pseuds/Riesx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuing a bit after Spike finds Katrine in the Magic Box. And some of his thoughts on the subject. Aftermaths are a bitch, no?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 3rd and final part of Suicide Blonde series. Beginning quote by the poet Rumi. May continue....

No origin is like where it leads to  
We can't know where our pain is from  
We don't know all that we've done  
Perhaps it's best if we don't  
Nevertheless, we suffer for it.

********************************************************

 

Some will say it is romantic. Passionate and wretched all at once.  
Haunting in a way. They are the "illusioned" ones. Caught up in a  
mystery. The universal lie. Poor things don't know, can't even begin  
to realise how wrong they are. It's the worst kind of drug. This  
addiction. We are the junkies of hell, no? Corrupt. Insatiable. Ever  
more aware, but never quite sober. Angels with dirty faces. Puncture  
wounds tell the thousand tales. Track marks that chronicle our self-  
destructive lives. It hurts, children. It's frightening. Savage in  
its intensity. A spirit-crushing, mind-numbing dry fuck. It births  
and it kills. Creator. Destroyer. One and the same. Unnatural that  
this thing that was meant for only one should now be shared by two. A  
one way ticket to paradise? No. A Wonderland trip down the rabbit  
hole, more like it. But unlike that little Alice twit, you AIN'T  
comin' back. It is a filthy process. And if, yes IF, you survive,  
it'll be an experience that will always be remembered. No one forgets  
their life's force being taken from them. Giving it's an even riskier  
task. The hunger can overwhelm. You must be ever so delicate, careful  
not to suck the marrow from the bone. Demon comes to the fore and all  
you want to do is follow it down. Through the fangs to the throat to  
the bottomless depths of what they have that you do not. Down to the  
soul. It is a means of transforming, yes. Wanting to push your way  
inside. Become a little bit more. And that's the sorrow of it all.  
See, when it is done, the act complete...You realise just how sorry  
you are. Just a pile of bone and sin and rotted flesh. Don't need a  
soul for that. The blood? A measure of denial is what it is, really.  
You are dead. SO not alive. And you couldn't deny that fact if you  
tried. Oh, how some of us do, though. There is nothing remarkable  
about it. It's a delusion. A refusal. A despicable reason to be. But  
sometimes, it's all that you need. Simple. As. That. I can't deny you  
now, love. So drink. Tell me where the rest of my children have gone.  
A father has to know. Has to come to terms somewhere down the line.  
You can push it away. And if you're lucky, ignore it for a few  
lifetimes. But sometimes one has to deal with the mistakes, become  
the tiniest bit human again. It's a place I know all too fucking  
well. Spawn a hundred. Birth a thousand. Narrow them down in your  
mind. Even pick a favorite. You will forget. It is the first that  
stays with you. The one you cannot erase. The origin of your taking.  
Akin to rape, because you stole and marred and only gave back one  
thing. But it was all that you had left to give. Blood binds.  
Un-beating heart to non-existent soul. And you don't feel guilty  
because you are beyond that. Though you know, for the most part,  
they'd refuse if asked permission. Who really asks for forever? We  
are empty shells, you and I. Floating through this tumultuous  
existence in a guttered-out ghost train. Strangers to the worlds.  
Taking the unnecessary breath, I feel you release me. Look into  
those unnatural crimson eyes and search for the old connection. That  
tenuous thread that bound us once before, brought two monsters  
together. Family. Hasn't it always been that way between us?  
Your face becomes normal. Morphs back into its gorgeous human  
visage. And I'd give anything to hold you now, sitting beside you on  
the floor. Getting stronger. Tasting the pain. Nothing so pure's been  
in your system for a while now, eh love? Shaking and holding back the  
tears, I watch you in the artificial half-light. How can one be so  
beautiful, so horrible, all at once? I do not know. This is the price  
we pay. Suffering and elation. Sadness and bliss one and the same. We  
borrow our lives, we do. You asked me once why we continue to do so.  
Plunder and reap until that's all that's left. All that consumes.  
Why, if it's so awful, do we go on? My answer was unexpected. I said:  
I almost died once. Began to slip away. Found myself at the  
crossroads between the universes, knowing the choice was mine.  
Carrefour tingindingue, mi haut, mi base. And I can't say I wanted  
it, having never had a glimpse of heaven. Cause who knows if it's  
even there? Fear is a powerful thing, I told you. So is love. I  
learned that from you, the teacher of my heart. Connection or no, I  
must admit. Even from the start, childe, you were never mine. The  
evil men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their  
bones. Picked that up from Shakespeare. Makes a bit of sense now,  
doesn't it?

"Why have you come back, love? How...." I ponder aloud, laying my  
body down on the padded floor. I hear your weary sigh. So tired, but  
why? Have you not just drunk half of my bloody....er, blood. Essence  
of the Sire. The best stuff out there. Or maybe I'm still back in my  
crypt, dreaming. The Powers That Be pulling another mind-trip on ole  
Spike. Chipped and hallucinating. Watching this life and the last wax  
and wane, one into the other, right before my eyes. But, no. Your  
voice tells me the truth and I am transported back a hundred years in  
time.

"The past has come back to haunt us all, I'm afraid. Even them,  
William."

I feel you turn your attention to the door that we had earlier  
closed for privacy. The Scooby behind it in the main shop. Eagerly  
anticipating answers, no doubt. I sit up slowly, propping my upper  
body up on an unsteady elbow. "Bloody hell! What in the eight lower  
dimensions is going on, Emma?"

Ah, yes. That hit a nerve. Not used to being called by your old  
Christian name, are you? Decades of old pain fill your eyes and I  
swear I can hear the opening of previously healed wounds. Probably  
just my imagination. You always were the soddin' strong one.

"I must tell everyone at once. What I know is more important than  
you and I at the moment."

I take the hand that you are offering and allow myself to be pulled  
upright. "I'm still taller than you, pet." I plaster on my most  
roguish expression. I catch the fleeting grin you try to hide and  
for a second the memories come flooding back. They do nothing so much  
as overwhelm. For the first time since I've seen you I am hit with  
the realisation that you are alive. Not in the strictest sense, mind.  
But standing here before me nonetheless. I would call it a miracle if  
I believed in them. Cause for awhile there you were dead. Really and  
truly. Lost in that fire with the rest of em. Nothing but ash. Dust  
to dust and all o'that. A single drop of blood runs a lonely course  
down your pale cheek and you drop all pretense of composure for a  
moment.

"He's dead. Jeremy. They killed him. I felt him die."

I take you in my undead arms and wish more than anything that you  
could disappear. Separate the curtains of time and put you in your  
rightful place. Death is all that follows us now. My mistakes are  
etched into my memory with an indelible ink. You were the worst. The  
only thing I've ever regretted. I feel you stiffen and I loose you  
from my grip. Ethereal eyes bore into mine, then look away again.

"Come. They will want to know the truth."

Reaching for the door, I stop and question you. "Still wanting to  
save the world, love? Well, I guess you came to the right spot." I  
jerk it open and enter behind you, registering the small groups  
expressions. Red and her little wiccan friend sit at the table,  
looking concerned. The bit. Where is she? Oh, couldn't make her out  
hiding under my duster. Maybe she's been crying, poor girl. I can't  
read anyone else. Empty. Buffy does have to be the one to start with  
the yelling, dumb chit. Should be used to it by now, but-

"Good. She's awake. Mind filling in the uninformed here?" the  
blonde slayer walks right up to us and I suddenly realise she's  
speaking to me.

I take out a cigarette and casually light it where I'm standing  
back in the doorway. "You want your answers, Slayer. You're gonna  
have to ask Em here." I motion towards you and try my best not to  
shake. Can't believe how fuckin' nervous I am.

"Em?" Willow asks from her seat. "B-But I thought your name was  
Katrine?"

"We often change our names over the years." Katrine calmly answered.

"Why? So you can stay one step ahead of the undead IRS?" Xander  
piped up from the corner. "And what's the deal with you and Bleachboy  
over there? Got a new bloodsucking fiend girlfriend, Spike?"

I raise my eyebrow. "You jealous, whelp?" No comeback. "Don't think  
Em here appreciates the implied incest in your question."

"Okay. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa here. Back the logic train  
up for a sec." Buffy countered. "I'm gonna say this once and only  
once: Huh?"

I stay silent, watching my fag burn itself down. I know it's you  
who has to answer. Some part of me doesn't want you to, though. The  
raw, instinctive bit that urges me to just take you and run out.  
Night air and hot blood running through our veins. Nothing but us,  
pet. Just the stars and the full moon and a thousand haunted places.  
You clear your throat, and I'm proud of you in this moment. Staring  
down at the slayer as if you own her. I can't believe that you are  
mine. Hope that it'll stay that way after you tell our history. These  
wankers'll know more than they should. About me. Us. The dank, dark  
places only we have been to. But it's you, so I don't say a word.

"My birth name is Emma Morgan Rothschild. I was born in the year  
1852 in London, England. William.....He is my brother."

"Damn. And I thought I had it bad." Xander was the only one to have  
found his voice, but only for a lame attempt at an insult. The rest  
of the Scoobs were shocked into silence. Eventually, it was Giles who  
broke the tension.

"A master vampire brother and sister? Why have I not read about  
this in the diaries, Spike?" Giles asked, walking nearer to the pair  
with an awed expression. " And for all intents and purposes, you seem  
to have a soul. How is this possible?"

"W-Were you cursed too?" Dawn spoke from behind the duster collar.

"When I was turned, I had a natural resistance to the demon. It  
would be the same as if Buffy here were made into a vampire." Katrine  
(Emma?) nodded to Buffy who was standing next to Giles, almost in her  
face.

"Wait a sec. Don't tell me you were a Slayer? Cause I'm still  
getting over the Spike-has-an-undead-sibling thing." Buffy glanced at  
Spike, who had been uncharacteristically quiet. He seemed to be  
studying his shoes and she knew she wouldn't be getting anything out  
of him.

The fem-vamp turned her mouth into a wry grin, almost sad. "No. But  
I am-was very close to another slayer. One from my time. Actually,  
that is why I sought you out. The Simeon Quaternary's destiny has  
collided with your own" She point out the whole gang.

"Why have I not read about any of this? Why do people not keep  
complete accounts?" Giles muttered to himself.

"I'm gettin' the feeling that storytime's about to rear it's ugly  
head." Xander plopped down into a chair next to Anya and she rested  
her head on his shoulder.

"Ssh! Vampire's have wonderful stories. Full of love and death and  
bloody carnage. Also, very few bunnies." she whispered to her  
boyfriend.

"Alright. Tell give us what you got. Some of it better be good."  
Buffy demanded.

Katrine casually reached into her jacket pocket and returned with a  
cigarette. She lit it with a quick flick of a lighter and turned  
towards the group, blowing smoke in their general direction. Buffy  
was amazed at how much the two vamps looked alike. More than brother  
and sister even. More than twins. Of course, now Spike was the silent  
one, having given of his speaking rights to his only childe. He knew  
she would tell it right, leaving nothing out. That was what he  
worried about. She began and all was still in him. Just like before.  
A million friggen' light years away.

"Back in the late 19th century, before I was turned, I knew a  
slayer. We had the same destiny. We were linked just as you all are  
now. His name was Tamas. And I was his Watcher."


	2. Chapter 2

Your total individuality is your soul.  
It abides in the indeterminate plurality  
of universes. Because it is alive, it is  
evolving. Because it is outside of time,  
its evolution is only the time that you  
need to permit it to find you.  
It is one and innumerable.

**********************************************************************

LONDON, ENGLAND-1880

 

The full moon fell from the sky. A bright sightless orb, it  
crashed through the flimsy night ether, never pausing on its suicidal  
collision course. Inches from her face, it paused, then in falling  
again, obliterated everything from sight. Her scream ripped through  
the never-ending darkness and she felt the pain of the worlds collapse  
upon her. Echoing through the spacious room, her voice awoke her from  
the nightmare. She opened tear-filled eyes and sat up in bed,  
piercing the gloom with her steely gaze. The faint morning light  
sifted through the curtain-drawn windows, offering their scant  
illumination as she turned and placed bare feet on the cold tile  
floor. As she slowly rose, her red velvet nightshirt fell below her  
knees and into a small pool of crimson around slim ankles. She  
confidently paced to the silver-gilded mirror in the corner of the  
room, her vision as perfect as the cat's who had intertwined himself  
with her feet as she stood stock still, staring at her reflection.  
Never vain, she usually spent only minutes examining her appearance  
in the mornings, but this time she searched for something. It was a  
thing intangible, she knew. It was an exercise to calm her mind, the  
nightmares having stirred emotions entirely too real. She plunged  
both hands into the water basin and leaned over to swiftly wash her  
face. A sharp rap on the chamber door startled her, making her head  
jerk quickly back.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice suprisingly smooth.

A familiar voice answered from the other side of the thick  
oak. "Miss? I understand it is early, but I came as to inquire of  
your safety. Is...everything alright?"

Ah, her scream. She had thought it a part of the dream. "Yes,  
Buford. I am quite well. I thank you for the concern."

"Breakfast will be served in an hour, Miss Emma. May I presume you  
will be present?" the butler archly inquired.

"Yes."

"Very well, miss. Oh, before I forget. Master William requested you  
stroll the gardens with him this morning." he paused as if waiting  
for an answer, but upon receiving none, the old man turned and  
crisply returned to his work.

She heard the soft footfalls of Buford's leaving and dried her face  
on the towel next to the stand. With every fiber of her being she  
envied the man. He would always know where he belonged, always know  
his place. To each according to his abilities...Gods, she thought. I  
have been waiting for this my entire life. My destiny is to never  
know nor have any peace, is that not right? Silently cursing the  
melancholy that had so suddenly filled her, she bent and picked up  
the gray feline that had begun to mew at her feet. She touched its  
nose with her own as it purred and curled into the crook of her arm.  
The cat stared deeply into her blue eyes and projected the image of  
food and the path to the kitchen into her mind. "And you will be  
forever hungry, lazy little Rowan." Lowering him back onto the floor,  
she opened the heavy door wide enough for him to slink out and closed  
it again when he had gone. As she turned in the direction of her  
closet, the world spun and she fell, dizziness overwhelming all her  
senses. She clinched her eyes shut tightly and grasped for the edge  
of the bed. Pulling herself into a standing position, she futilely  
attempted to erase the barrage of visions from her mind's eye. And  
just as suddenly as the onslaught had come, the horrendous scenes  
vanished. She shuddered and hurriedly dressed, knowing she had little  
time. Passing the mirror on her way out of the room, she noticed an  
oddness in her image. She peered into the polished glass and  
discovered what was off. Her eyes were not blue as they usually were,  
but had inexplicably turned to brown. "Not again." She sighed and  
whispered a spell. "Kantos." The color returned to normal instantly  
and she checked her face for more signs of change. Her wrist began to  
throb and she removed the velvet glove, revealing the intricate  
tattoo underneath. She had been born with it, a permanent reminder of  
her inheritance, the duty she would always have to perform. The edges  
of the strange design began to glow, a faint luminosity that seemed  
mystical in appearance. She replaced the glove and peered into the  
mirror once more, staring at herself intensely. "And so it begins."  
With a deep sigh, she left the comfort of her bedchamber and hurried  
through the hallways of her spacious home, the mansion of her  
childhood. Familiar twists and turns seemed foreign now and she  
nearly lost her way a couple of times. And then, as if conjured, a  
pair of double doors appeared and she took them out into the estates'  
gardens. How many times had she wandered about these flowers, trees,  
flowing streams? And always she was filled with peace, a serenity she  
could never explain, the flora bringing about a stillness in her that  
was all too rare these days. Passing a rosebush, she paused and  
picked a bright red blossom, then continued until she found what she  
had come for. The solemn marble tombstone stood in a small clearing,  
the only edifice in the gardens that had been made by human hands.  
She slowly knelt and placed the rose in front of it, the other  
bouquets having faded or been blown away by the rough autumn winds.  
Her mind reached out and she transmitted a telepathic thought into  
the morning air. Hello, Papa. She felt a soft caress of her mind,  
the only sign that she had been heard. Crisp leaves crunched under  
feet behind her and she opened her eyes, knowing who it was without  
looking.

"Hello, Em. I thought I might find you here."

She stood and turned, taking in the young man before her. His sandy  
brown hair fluttered in the light breeze and his tie needed to be  
straightened, but all in all, he resembled the image of a proper  
English gentleman. She smiled softly and felt a warmness stir her  
heart. "William. Will you keep me company, brother?"

He too smiled, an exact replica of her own, and held out his hand  
to her. "Only if you will join me inside. It is much too cold  
outdoors. You'll catch a chill. And need I remind you, there is a  
madman on the loose."

"Yes, I needn't be scolded like a child, Will. I only came to see  
Father, is all." She gathered her long, black cloak around herself  
and started the journey back to the house, passing William on her  
way. He quickly caught up to the older woman as she slowed her pace,  
staring at the ground all the while. "I apologise. I forget so easily  
these days. It seems as if years have passed and I never did have the  
stomach for these things."

"He was your father as well, William." Emma stopped and stared at  
her brother. The intensity of her gaze made him nervous and he could  
think of nothing suitable to say. She gripped his upper arm and  
smoothed a wayward lock of hair behind his left ear. "We must  
remember the dead. Sometimes they are all that we have." The  
seriousness of his sister's words confused him and he grabbed her  
arm, taking her hand in his.

William looked his sister in the eyes, hers full of a sadness he  
could not place. "Dear heart, whatever has happened to fill you with  
such melancholy?"

Emma returned his stare, trying not to read his thoughts at the  
same time. She always had a modicum of control when it came to her  
gifts, but William's mind, his heart, was forever open to her. It  
hurt to be in his presence at times, but she had never cut herself  
off from him. If anything, he was the one person that she could  
depend on. When their father had died from pneumonia the past winter,  
she thought she would perish as well. She had found William to be a  
strong man, despite all evidence to the contrary. And in those long,  
dark days they had formed a tight bond, emotionally and mentally.  
Although her brother could be shy and awkward, he could also be  
determined and fierce. It was that fierceness, buried deep beneath  
the vestiges of the privileged, manicured young man that frightened  
her. Reading William had become easier during the last few months and  
she had discovered, quite by chance, the depths of his feelings for  
her. It was near impossible for her not to feel those same emotions  
when speaking to, touching, or merely passing by him ten feet away.  
The adoration, the longing, the ardent desire coursing through his  
being. She never forgot her place, however, never letting on that she  
knew. Let him have his adolescent delusions, she thought. He will  
outgrow them soon enough. William reached out and smoothed her cheek  
with the back of his gloved hand. "Am I the cause of this sour look  
marring your beauty?"

All at once, his tenderness became too much for Emma to bear and  
she pulled away, running fingertips over the dying leaves of a nearby  
tree branch. "Beauty fades, William."

He frowned, mirroring her expression. "That's a sad thought."

The young woman smiled to herself, hiding her face behind a curtain  
of long brown hair. "Only for the young." She shivered, the morning  
air, freezing to the bone. "Sometimes I wish I was old."

William snorted, almost a sound of distain. "Em, please. Will you  
stop-"

"Old. So I wouldn't be...afraid anymore." she said, her voice a  
near whisper.

"Afraid of what, love?" He gripped her shoulder and gently turned  
her around. He could see the tears forming in the corners of her blue  
eyes and became fearful for his sister's mental state. She had had a  
breakdown once before and he wondered if such a madness was  
returning. William knew she was the stronger of them emotionally, but  
he often worried about her mind.

"Fate." Emma appeared to be some place he could only dream of.  
Nowhere that he could touch. She often did this, slip into a  
trance-like state, a calming exercise that soothed the inner  
demons. "Hm...How innocent you sound when you speak like that. Like  
little Mas when he follows me around, a thousand questions flowing  
from his lips. Or Mother-"

"Em, please do calm yourself." he pleaded.

And suddenly, as if nothing had happened, she became alert once  
more. Somber and stable at the same time. "I do go on sometimes,  
don't I?"

William smiled gently. "Oh, dear heart, I find it enchanting."

"You and you alone, Will." Emma returned the smile, seeming to be  
in cheerier spirits. She pretended the slip had not occurred and  
wondered how much William had caught. This had never happened and she  
was afraid that it could not be hidden much longer. She knew she must  
leave her remaining family soon, only to meet a fate she was not sure  
she wanted any part of. But, as many things in the mortal world,  
truth was not kind. And it had dealt its harshest hands to four men  
and women sho would be called upon to do everything to save it. It  
was not a role she relished, but it was hers alone. The only thing  
she would ever own or be asked to lay down her life for. But she was  
strong and that would carry her far. 

Hopefully far enough, she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "C'est ein affaire a pus finir" is French and it means "It's a thing that has no end". Beginning words are from "Eight Propositions" by Carlo Suares.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new character gets his say.

London, England-Outskirts-1880

 

He feels completely, utterly broken.

From head to ankles to blistered toes, inside and out, through and through. Cold (white) heat (fire) burning deep down to the marrow...soul ablaze. Trembling, bandaged hands that have never felt so old. Time is fast catching up. Mentally, physically, spiritually. In every sense of the word. Un-singing, non-melodic in the breakdown of every fibre that keeps the whole intact. Body numbed and senses the same. But not enough to halt his slow progress. More machine than man. For the time being. Setting a course for the Ending Place. Fatal showdown in the peak of his days as guardian to the boy. So much not a man, yet...non, correction, no time to be one.

"No one runs from Monsieur Death,  
He catches up with you.  
So with this parting kiss, I'll say  
Adieu, adieu, adieu...."

It runs through a loop in his mind. Not being able to say the words, lips having been frozen shut in the hard-pressed grimace he's been wearing since the beginning of this journey. Doesn't really want to know what lies ahead, but wise enough to realise that it's not his choice...never has been his choice. Free will, destiny, the difference between the wide-awake angels and those who opt to sleep.

Never-ending oblivion.

What he'd give. An eye or an arm or his life. If just not to be a puppet on a string one...minute...more. And he cries, never pausing. But unlike the child's song, these he does not...cannot...will not hold inside. Spilling over, they become frozen crystalline tracks before reaching his mouth. Wind whips by and stings. Sensation is still feeling, he knows. However, the question is, For how long? and By how much? They always have been, it seems. And suddenly, a nudge in the back, a shake of the head, and a soft whinny from behind clears his senses. Realization seeps in like the melting snow through his leather breeches. And he knows he has been sitting all this time. Having loyal horse behind...staring at City Gates ahead.

Still unmoving...

...non-believer in fate and his part in it. This horrific morality tale. So he waits for time to pass, wanting the nightmare to leave. Knowing it will not. Putting aside self, he rises, takes firm hold of rein and extends his waning sensors. All but a dead man, hearing the low keening plea of the place he has been drawn back to.

"Adrien....Adrien....Dark one....Come....Waiting....For you....Adrien..."

If he was a weaker person, it would frighten him to the very depths of his soul. But he has seen too much and is too weary to really care. And if this last task should kill him, stop his beating heart for all of time, he would not protest. Just succumb and become nothing. Ether in the half-world. Standing tall once more, eyes burning with defiance, he raises crossed fists and glares towards the spirits.

"The Great Mother and Father protect me as I arrive at the crossroads. Carrefour tingindingue, mi haut, mi base." The last is yelled through his raw throat and in the native Cajun of his homeland.

He begins his journey again, not having far to go. Making sure things feel right. Making sure he can feel at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it ends abruptly and strangely, right?! More to come....


End file.
